O human child
by ethnonyms
Summary: Scott, 13: Damaged, volatile. Survivor. Bobby, 15: Reckless, insatiable. Instigator. Warren, 20: Privileged, cruel. Manipulator. Hank, 16: Vicious, brilliant. Observer. Jean, 16: Radiant, terrible. Giver and destroyer. A modern, disturbing take on the five original X-Men and their unfathomable leader, Professor Charles Xavier. Multiple pairings and triggers. You've been warned.


When he is twelve-and-a-half years old, Warren Worthington III painfully sprouts a pair of tiny, white-feathered wings from the center of his back.

At the time, Warren doesn't know that he's a mutant—a _Homo sapiens superior_. He does know that he's the lone heir to Worthington Industries, his father's multibillion-dollar corporation. He knows that the corporate world lives in fear and loathing of the specter of public image, always striving to put its best foot forward for the sake of those millions of faceless consumers who govern the tides of the market.

Warren understands, even then, that even a small scandal can easily shake the foundations of the earth stood upon by the wealthiest and most powerful of men.

When he is twelve-and-a-half, Warren makes an effort to become very good at lying.

—

Times change, and Warren changes with them. He grows into the body of a handsome young adult, his sprawling wings tucked into a harness beneath designer overcoats. He learns the ins and outs of corporate trade and transactions, and his childish fears give way to adult desires.

The Xavier Institute is a temporary refuge, as both he and his parents are well aware. Someday soon, Warren will return to his father's world, will rise up to the top of the corporate ladder and transcend all others in his degree of power and influence.

Until then, he is an X-Man. A mutant. He owes a great deal to the man known as Charles Xavier, both spiritually and financially. And Warren is not the only one.

Jean Grey is stylish, charming, and beautiful, with the blossoming body of a model and a lovely face to match. Everyone adores her. When she walks into a room, it's like someone has lit up a fireplace, a bright center of warm light and crackling heat.

Warren must remind himself, frequently, that Jean is only sixteen, however provocatively she dresses.

When she walks through Xavier's mansion, she is plagued incessantly with boys: Bobby, chatting himself stupid, Scott, grinning and unreadable behind his glasses. They are pests. Warren hates pests.

Warren tells himself that he is well above his teammates' slavish rituals of devotion. When _he_ waits for Jean at the driveway, holds open the door for her in a friendly mockery of chivalry, he tells himself that he is only flirting, practicing for the society girls he'll meet someday at his father's parties. He tells himself that Jean is nothing but an easy target, a way to occupy his time at this pitiful estate before he dons the mantle of corporate leadership he always was born to wear.

Jean's laughter fills his chest with warmth, and Warren can tell she is charmed by him despite herself, at his handsomeness and theatrics, his pretty face and his charisma and golden hair.

(Even if the voices in Jean's head _must_ know the truth by now—that Warren would never treat her properly, never handle her as a gentleman ought.)

Warren tells himself he could break Jean Grey's heart without remorse. In his father's world, he knows, girls like Jean are no better than trash, good for perhaps one or two uses before being callously tossed away, into the dregs of society from whence they came.

Everyone loves Jean, though, and that makes Warren's ruminations dangerous. Xavier loves Jean—if Warren were to use her and abuse her like a common whore, would the professor toss him out onto the curb like he deserved? Would he give Warren another chance? Just how much _is_ the Worthingtons' money worth to the old man, when it comes right down to it? What is the price of an X-Man?

The questions are dark and frightening because they have to be. The more twisted his fantasies, the easier it becomes to ignore them, pretend he might think them of anyone. Maybe a part of him already knows it isn't enough that Jean Grey is four years Warren's junior. She is a _child_, for goodness' sake. Warren tells himself adamantly that for all his dark thoughts, he does not truly desire her as anything more than a friend.

Warren has gotten quite good at lying to himself.

—

If girls like Jean Grey are disposable in the world where Warren comes from, then boys like Scott Summers are even lesser trifles, living playthings who exist solely for the amusement of their betters.

Warren doesn't know much about Scott's past. It's not terribly difficult for him to fill in the blanks, though—thirteen-year-old boys, even those born among the impoverished masses, aren't supposed to smoke and drink and spew vulgarities like grown men. Boys so young aren't supposed to shake all over from withdrawals, whenever they can't get their hands on painkillers and antidepressants. They aren't supposed to flirt shamelessly with anything that moves, only to freeze up at the slightest display of any unexpected, uninitiated contact.

Thirteen-year-old boys certainly aren't supposed to wake up in the middle of the night with screaming nightmares that disturb the entire mansion, and they _absolutely_ are NOT supposed to fill Warren's thoughts with the types of degenerate fantasies that have plagued him nightly ever since his arrival at the mansion. Thoughts of Scott Summers lurk feverishly at the corners of Warren's mind, threatening to surface whenever he lets his concentration falter. The attraction he feels for Scott is of a very different breed than the one he holds for Jean, but that doesn't exactly make it any less perverted or dangerous.

Warren considers himself to be straight; but Scott, damn him, is gorgeous: smooth features, silky hair, perfect jawline, hauntingly vulnerable expression. And that's just his face—he's the archetypal pretty-boy head to toe, far too attractive for his own good no matter where you look, and Warren looks often enough to know. Warren finds his gaze lingering on the alluring flat planes of Scott's stomach and the lean definition of his arms when they practice in the Danger Room together, eyes drawn in by the angular, wiry muscles stretched beneath thin yellow spandex.

The boy is underdeveloped, to be certain, but still unmistakably beautiful.

Scott's only thirteen, the youngest out of all of them. Yet somehow, watching him, Warren feels none of the twisting guilt that frequently haunts his interactions with Jean. He doesn't harbor the same compulsion to pretend his intentions there are pure.

After all, Scott Summers is obviously damaged goods. He's already been plenty tarnished by the stark ugliness of the world. A boy like Scott isn't someone Warren runs the risk of destroying with his well-bred cruelty.

Still, Warren tells himself without much conviction that these private thoughts he entertains about Scott Summers, however enticing they might be, disturb him greatly in their frequency and intensity.

This is an unrepentant lie.

—

It's perverted, Warren knows that, but his obsession with Scott Summers nonetheless goes beyond simple perversion.

What _really_ gets under Warren's skin is the fact that in this house, in Xavier's haven for freaks and mutants, a smear of a boy like Scott openly outranks him. Scott was the very first X-Man, the first mutant adolescent whom the professor reached down personally to lift from the depths of a hateful society and into his waiting arms. Xavier and Scott share a history that Warren will never be privy to, a relationship of a nature which he will never experience himself, with Xavier or anyone else.

Inside the Institute's sturdy walls, Scott Summers is a person of _status;_ and what's worse, the boy is fully aware of it—in Warren's eyes, Scott seems to walk around the mansion like he owns the place.

And Warren, who has held that privilege wherever he went his entire life, is utterly loath to share it with such a broken shadow of a child.

The indignity seethes constantly at the back of his mind, makes Warren's wings twitch in dual anger and desire whenever the thirteen-year-old crosses his path. Warren knows, instinctively, that he is better than Scott in every respect. Every fiber of his memory, of his upbringing, tells him that this is indisputable. Warren knows his superiority the way he knows his own skin.

Warren wants Scott to know it, too.

—

Warren cannot and does not pretend to consider Scott his equal, a person of shared rights and status, though for Xavier's sake, he tries. Whatever the professor knows about Warren's private thoughts regarding Scott, and Jean for that matter, he keeps it to himself. Money doesn't grow on trees, after all, and the Danger Room isn't cheap to maintain. Warren's money helps with that.

(What is the price of an X-Man?)

However, though Scott Summers might be a creature without value, he is also vigilant and smart, hardly ever unaware of his surroundings. Very little escapes the boy's notice—this is, after all, how animals learn to survive.

Scott seems capable of figuring out Warren's disturbing predilections for himself without the professor's help. One morning after practice, the boy waits patiently for Jean and Bobby and Hank to drag themselves back to their rooms, and then Scott corners Warren angrily in the hall.

"Stop—Stop _staring_ at me during Danger Room sessions," Scott says harshly, practically grinding his teeth, like each word causes him physical pain. "I see you watching me in there, Worthington, and I don't—I don't know what the _fuck_ you want, but just cut it out_, _you got it?"

Scott's ruby-quartz glasses hide his eyes well enough, but there's no masking his clenched jaw, his hard, rigid expression; mirrored by the stiff posture of his body. Scott might act playful or licentious around Jean, or even Xavier, but he never, _ever_ relaxes around Warren, who can't decide if this is a good or a bad thing.

Bemused, but hardly shocked at the outburst, Warren weighs his options. He quickly decides upon feigning obliviousness as long as he can. An animal like Scott hardly deserves his honesty.

"Staring?" Warren asks him, oh-so-carefully puzzled. His eyebrows draw together in bewilderment, like upturned question marks. "I'm sorry, Scott, but I don't...I have no idea what you're talking about. Is everything all right?"

The reaction Warren gets is well worth the restraint. Scott gapes and falters wordlessly for a moment, comically unsure of how to proceed, and Warren has to check a sudden, bizarrely fond urge to pin the smaller boy back against the wall. Show him who's _really_ in charge.

"That's—I—just leave me alone, Worthington!" Scott finally snaps, turning his back on Warren and beginning to storm off in the direction of his room.

Warren could leave it at that. Once Scott's had some time to cool down, he might save Warren the trouble and convince himself he had only imagined the whole thing.

Instead, Warren follows him partway down the hall. He makes headway up easily with long strides until he's close enough to reach out and grab Scott's arm, which he does. Without giving the boy a chance to react, Warren uses forward momentum to spin Scott around in one swift motion, pressing his back up hard against the wall.

Scott panics immediately, attempts to jerk away, but Warren is prepared: already he's unfurled his wings so as to create an impromptu cage of sorts around his prey, trapping the boy securely in place on all sides. Scott stares frozen, uncomprehending, at the white wings blocking his path for a second too long, and Warren takes advantage of his distraction to seize both the boy's wrists firmly in his hands. Scott whips his head around to face him, terror-stricken, but instead of fighting he now goes pitifully still save for his body trembling. Warren suspects it's not a conscious reaction so much as a learned one, and the thought his mouth twitch upward at the corners in malicious glee.

He has Scott completely at his mercy.

But it's a mercy that Warren intends to share—for now, at least. "Hey, wait up," he says gently, hiding his smile and lowering himself a bit so that he's level with Scott's eyes, hidden behind his glasses. Warren doesn't need to see those eyes to guess at their wide, terrified expression; he can guess as much from the trembling wrists in his hands. "Listen, Scott. I know we don't really talk that much, and I'm really sorry if I've done something to freak you out, but, I just want you to know that I do care about you as a teammate, okay? We're in this together."

Warren is a good liar, but to his credit, Scott doesn't buy his act for one second. "Get off of me!" the boy snarls, pulling and twisting in his desperation to be freed of the angel's iron grip. "You and I have _nothing_ in common, you sick fuck! Let go!"

Warren debates for an agonized moment, but then releases his captive, schooling his handsome features into an expression of sadness and confused regret. Once he is free, Scott scrambles away like an animal possessed, not turning his back on Warren as he puts as much distance as between them as he possibly can while still maintaining eye contact.

"_Leave me alone!_" Scott screams at him, still violently shaking.

Warren has to keep himself from shivering a bit too, albeit for entirely different reasons. "I'm sorry, Scott," he lies blandly, his veins pulsing with adrenaline from the close encounter—the knowledge of what he _could_ have so easily done. "I'll leave you alone, if that's what you really want."

He watches Scott's ensuing retreat eagerly: the boy darts all the way down the hallway, slamming into his room with a last look at Warren and a strangled curse of rage. Warren waits, but he does not emerge again.

It's only a game, Warren tells himself hungrily, his heart still pounding in accompaniment to the blood rapidly pooling between his legs. Just a game, and a frivolous one at that. Of course Warren won't take it too far.

Warren is _very_ good at lying to himself.

—

For a few days, Scott refuses to come near him, hiding behind Jean or Bobby whenever Warren walks into the room. Soon, though, he starts approaching Warren of his own accord, _defiantly_, as though to prove to the both of them that he isn't afraid.

Warren encourages this behavior as best he can, putting up a front of kindness and understanding whenever Scott comes near him at the mansion. It isn't easy, unfortunately—if Jean is well-liked by all, Scott is the exact opposite, a boy with a personality so tangled and exacting that it seems designed specifically to drive away all others who might want to make friends.

Scott Summers is many things, few of them pleasant, aside from his physical appearance. Ordinarily he's flirtatious bordering on provocative, but as of late he's had all the personality of a brick wall, closed and unreachable, refusing to interact outside one-word answers if he can be bothered to respond at all. In less pleasant moods, Scott is actively _rude_, even aggressive, picking choice barbs in his speech to sink all the goodwill in a conversation as quickly as it arises. He bristles at the slightest provocation, but paradoxically he seems genuinely offended if someone reacts negatively to his attacks. Only Jean and the professor can extract his easy smiles and laughter anymore, but even these are clearly faked, rehearsed machinations that Warren recognizes from so many business meanings enduring throughout his childhood.

Warren wants, among other things, to throttle Scott within an inch of his life, to maybe extract that terrible attitude from him by _force_. Instead, he keeps up his act. Why subjugate with violence and intimidation, that which can be patiently tamed with determination and kindness?

Warren owes the professor his life. If he can avoid openly terrorizing Xavier's first precious student, he fully intends to try.

But Warren will have Scott. He _wants_ Scott—kneeling at his feet, reverent, worshiping Warren like a king. Like a god.

Warren has been treated like a god by everyone in his life since the day he was born. This should be no different.

Warren always gets what he wants.

—

He gets his next chance a week or so later, when Jean drags both him and Scott—("My favorite boys~!")—out to the mall, determined for the three of them to spend some _normal_ time together for a change, not fighting armored tanks in the Danger Room or struggling to optimize their mutant powers in one-on-one sessions with Xavier. Bobby is in trouble for some stupid act of vandalism, and Hank can scarcely be drawn out of his room even for occasions where he _can_ be seen out in the open. Warren prefers to be without their company anyway.

Scott, surprisingly enough, seems fairly at ease for the greater part of the afternoon. He consents to lunch at a casual restaurant with Warren and Jean, followed by a cheap action movie at the mall theater. Warren notices that Scott tenses up several times during the film at the sex and heavy romance scenes, however formulaic and unintuitive they happen to be. Jean leans over and whispers soothingly in the boy's ear whenever it happens, their foreheads gently touching, and Scott trembles but doesn't leave his seat. The two hold hands for the entire second half of the movie, and Warren feels an absurd swell of fondness and pride to watch them when they think they're being so discreet.

Maybe he should be jealous, considering his feelings for each of them. But Warren can't quite separate Scott and Jean from _himself_ in his own mind, subconsciously already his, and nothing they do together could challenge the private claim he's long since staked over both their souls.

(Warren is rich. The rest of the world, every bit it, is already his if he desires it.)

After the movie, Jean tells the two boys she has a hair appointment at the mall salon. Apologetic, she invites them to come along with her—only if they want to, of course, but it won't be much fun. Scott seems ready to follow her, but Warren rolls his eyes and intervenes, steering the boy away by the shoulders to go clothes shopping instead. Jean's cheerful blessing echoes without a hint of worry at their backs.

Warren waves her a casual good-bye in turn, musing by her lack of worry that Xavier's telepathic blocks in her mind finally seem to be working. Thank goodness. He's spent far too long living in jittery fear that she might one day open his mind and discover all the dark fantasies he holds over her, over her beloved Scott.

Warren remembers a time when Jean couldn't go to the mall like an ordinary person with him. The poor girl couldn't even fathom it—she'd spent her first month at the Institute holed up alone in her room, or in Xavier's office, her body practically hollowed out inside by telepathy. She'd tried desperately for so long to fight away the unfamiliar voices, echoing in the cavernous space where her thoughts had once dwelled before her powers set in. Speaking of it still made her uncomfortable and afraid.

Warren likes Jean _much_ better, now that she's sane.

"Where are we going?" Scott demands flatly, trying to hide his nervousness. Warren guides him patiently through a cluster of mall rats, moving steadily toward the high-end specialty stores at the eastern wing of the shopping center.

"Exactly where I told Jean we were. Shopping," he says, with the obviously patient air of someone who is speaking to a slow child.

Scott fidgets angrily but catches himself, not pulling away from the older boy's touch. "I don't need any clothes," he insists.

Warren snorts dismissively. Even for Scott, it's a pretty stupid thing to say. The boy's clothes aren't exactly _rags_, in the sense that they cover his body and lack holes and tears, but that doesn't change the fact that they're about as unflattering as is humanly possible. Scott's entire wardrobe seems to consist of baggy t-shits and straight-legged jeans, several inches too long for his skinny legs—punctuated by the occasional hideous sweater for the wintertime.

Warren has to wonder if this coordinated lack of fashion isn't an accident, if Scott (or Xavier) perhaps chooses this style as a way to actively repel strangers from him. It wouldn't surprise Warren at all, but that doesn't mean he has to condone it.

"Yes, you do need clothes," he says adamantly, guiding Scott into a small, modern-looking boutique that specializes in trendy menswear. "Trust me on this, Scott. I'd be an awful friend to let you run around in those hobo pants any longer."

"We are _not_ friends," Scott says peevishly, his fists clenched. Still, he doesn't attempt to fight Warren, merely shaking the older boy's hands from his shoulders once they physically get into the store.

Warren, agreeably, steps away, already picking clothes off the racks with careful consideration. His selections are mainly polo shirts and khakis, typical rich-boy clothes. Scott won't take to anything too flashy or eye-catching. "Roommates, then," he says blithely, pretending not to notice Scott's eyes drilling into his exposed back.

Scott watches him sourly as he peruses, probably wishing to be back with Jean again. However, when a sales clerk approaches the two of them to offer help, Scott wastes no time snarling her angrily back to the counter.

"That was rude," Warren says absently, nodding briskly in the direction of the changing rooms. "Come on. It's time to try these on."

Scott stares at him. Swallowing once, he holds out his arms hesitatingly for the clothes.

Warren hands them over without a word, his expression blank. When Scott moves toward the changing rooms, Warren waits a moment and then follows, ignoring a questioning look from the other clerk at the register. Let her think whatever she wants. For all anyone here knows, he and Scott could easily be brothers.

Once he's followed Scott into the tiny hallway lined with wooden doors, the boy quickly catches on. "You wait outside," he tells Warren heatedly, a heavy blush already creeping up his cheeks.

Warren doesn't hesitate. "No," he says boldly, shoving Scott stumbling toward the end of the hall before he can regain his senses. Warren yanks open the door to the last changing room and forcibly pushes Scott inside ahead of him, closing the door behind them and bolting the lock.

He turns to face the younger boy, who has already backed up to the opposite wall. Scott is trembling and staring hard at Warren, his whole countenance betraying a load of barely-contained anger and fear. He holds up the hangers of preppy clothes in front of his body like a shield.

"What are you doing? I said _wait outside!_" Scott snaps agitatedly, his voice unnaturally high.

As before, Warren doesn't hesitate. He suddenly isn't in the mood anymore, to play these childish games.

"No," he says again bluntly. "I'm done waiting for you."

He stalks forward, tearing the clothes out of Scott's hands and tossing them to the floor in a heap. Definitely spooked now, Scott jerks away by instinct, trying in vain to quickly dart around Warren's side. Warren catches him around the middle, holding his skinny torso in place with one arm, then he reaches up without delay to seal his free hand over Scott's mouth to keep him from making any noise.

Warren takes a moment to pause and secure his grip on his prey, his actions mechanically cold and pragmatic. He pulls Scott down to the ground with him in a single, sweeping movement, refusing to give the boy any leeway to escape. Scott struggles and kicks, letting out muffled screams into Warren's hand, but it's useless. Warren holds him fast, clumsily dragging the boy up into his lap and holding him there for long minutes until Scott has been reduced to a silent, shaking pile of nerves. That's when Warren calmly begins to speak.

"I know, Scott. I know," he murmurs, rocking the boy back and forth as gently as he can. "I _know_, your poor thing. I know how much pain you've been in, all this time. It's so obvious, in everything you do. I'm only trying to help." He presses a dry kiss to Scott's temple, beneath his flat-lying hair slicked with sweat. "Please, let me help you, Scott. We're both X-Men, you and I. You know I would _never_ hurt you."

Scott screws his eyes shut and tries to shake his head, but that's impossible, with Warren's grip on him like a vise.

"I know it must be a nightmare, living with two telepaths," Warren says soothingly to him, stroking the skin of his face with a gentle thumb. "I don't know how you manage to keep all that pain bottled up inside you, where Jean and the professor can't find it. That sort of thing can't last forever, Scott. Xavier gets upset with you when you act like this, doesn't he? It's easy for someone like him to ask you to talk, but _talking_ isn't what you really need. A pain like that won't go away until you scream it—you can _always_ scream for me, Scott. _Always_."

It takes a little longer, but when Scott finally breaks down for him, the beauty of the moment is enchanting: the younger mutant clings helplessly to the fabric of Warren's shirt, no longer fighting to get free, and when Warren reluctantly unwinds his arms Scott buries his face into the older boy's chest and lets himself cry in Warren's lap.

For long minutes, the small body at Warren's fingertips is racked with helpless sobs. Warren hushes Scott and holds him with endless patience, until the boy finally regains his control and quiets himself again, mutely standing to try on his new clothes.

In that moment, Warren idly realizes his words his words to Scott were actually true. He has no intention of hurting his fellow X-Man. Warren's care is sharp and cruel, but he does _care_ about Scott; and as of now, he wants nothing more than to piece together the jagged fragments of the child's mind so he can keep the wholly unbroken final product for himself. The world will always be waiting to tear his prize away from him, but Warren will cross that bridge later, when he comes to it. He can't have Jean Grey, not yet, but Warren's father won't live forever.

Until then—Scott Summers is going to give him _exactly_ what he wants.

And if Xavier tries to stop him, Warren will spread his wings and summon a hurricane that shakes the Institute down to rubble and ash. He is a Worthington. He always gets whatever he wants in the end.


End file.
